Page 78 of The Goat Next Door

“Move the bucket,” he grunts, dropping his toolbox with a loud clink.

“Nice to see you too, Brooks.”

He drops to his knees next to me in the narrow space beneath the sink. He’s so close his shoulder brushes against mine, the heat from his skin cutting through the damp cotton of my apron.

“Marge is twisting the main, but there’s still five gallons of backpressure in the line,” he says. “Hold this pipe steady so the torque doesn’t twist it off the wall.”

I reach out, my fingers wrapping around the cold copper pipe right above his hand.

My knuckles brush his, and a shock goes up my arm. Brooks freezes, his eyes cutting sideways to look at me, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm.

“You’re shivering,” he murmurs, his eyes tracing the damp line of my collarbone.

“The water is freezing,” I whisper, though my skin feels on fire.

“Sure it is.”

He turns the wrench with one powerful thrust of his shoulder. The metal groans, and a final hiss of steam escapes, clouding the dark space beneath the sink.

The leak stops. The water slows to a lazy drip.

But Brooks doesn’t move. He stays there on his knees, trapped in the narrow space between the sink and the wall, blocking my exit with his frame.

His hand leaves the wrench, his fingers sliding slowly up my forearm, a rough palm catching my hip through the apron.

He pulls me an inch closer, his thumb hooking into the waistband of my shorts, pressing against the bare skin of my hip with a slow, heavy pressure that makes my legs go weak. He leans in until his face is inches from mine, his stubble brushing against my cheek, his scent filling my head.

“We’re in the middle of Marge’s kitchen,” I breathe, my hands flattening against his t-shirt, feeling the hard, rapid beat of his heart. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to see. Marge could be back in five seconds.”

“Marge is eighty yards down the alley fighting an iron valve,” he murmurs, his mouth tracing a path from my cheek to my jaw. “And you’re the one who keeps coming into my space, Emmy. You’re the one who came across the lane last night.”

“You’re the one who pulled me into your lap,” I laugh, breathless. My fingers tangle into the short hair at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “You were terrified the neighbors would see, but you didn’t seem to care once you started tasting the cheese.”

Brooks looks down at me, his breathing rough. He looks at my mouth, his thumb resting against my hip, his expression shifting from raw heat into something more serious.

The banter slows, the atmosphere beneath the sink settling into a real weight.

He stays close, his forehead almost touching mine, but he stops the pressure of his hand. He looks at my gold curls, at the flour smudged near my ear, and then down at my hands.

“We really can’t do this, Emmy,” he says softly. “You’ve got a whole life back in Manhattan. You’re down here scrubbing goats and making a mess of my deck, but when October hits, and the wind starts howling… you’re gonna pack up that truck and go back. And I can’t have this town getting attached to seeing us together.”

I look into his gray eyes, my hands staying steady on his broad shoulders.

“I’m not going back, Brooks,” I say quietly. “I like the mud line. I like the five-am shifts. I’m here.”

Brooks looks at me for one long, silent second, searching my face as if he’s trying to verify the integrity of the statement. A small, genuine smile breaks across his face, the tight line of his jaw melting into a slow, relaxed grin.

He lets out a low, rumbling chuckle, before he pulls his hands back and picks up his wrench.

“We’ll see about that, city girl,” he murmurs, then he shifts, pushing himself up to a crouch before standing, offering me a hand to haul me off the tile.

The back screen door lets out a loud, slamming bang, and Marge’s heavy rubber soles squeak into the room.

Brooks steps back, snapping a rag out of his pocket and wiping his palms with professional precision.

His mask is back in place, but as he looks over Marge’s shoulder toward the exit, his eyes stay fixed on mine, full of a quiet, unsaid promise.

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